


hellraisers and rabblerousers

by drusillaes



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Abuse because Mrs. Quigley is terrible, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, F/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drusillaes/pseuds/drusillaes
Summary: "What a lovely little lapdog you have," Mrs. Quigley says.Or, the story of mudpie Maggie and face-ache Nancy, from the beginning.





	hellraisers and rabblerousers

The first time she meets Nancy Birch, Margaret Wells is five years old, a little urchin with a dirty face and grubby hands, who just got caught stealing a lady’s purse.

Guards chase after her as she flees, her bare feet catching on anail, and she trips and falls hard.

“Gentlemen!” a deep voice orders, and Maggie whimpers as she hears the crack of a whip against stone. She turns to see a hulking shadow along the alley wall. The two guards exchange glances.  
“You’re needed. A lady of some means has just been murdered!” the deep voice orders.

“But —”

“I’ll take care of this thieving rat, you hear? Just go!”

The two guards hurry off. Maggie cries. “Please don’t hurt me, sir.”

But then the figure creating the shadow takes off its hat and steps around the corner and it’s but a little girl stepping into the light, blue eyes glimmering with mischief. “Hello,” she says cheerfully, and bows like a proper gentleman.  
Maggie stares.

The little girl, maybe a year younger than Maggie, offers her a hand up and Maggie takes it.  
“You’re filthy. What’s your name?” the girl asks.  
“M-Margaret. Margaret Wells. What’s yours?”  
“Little Maggie Mudpie,” the little girl says, the insult resting affectionately on her tongue. She looks Maggie up and down. “I’m Nancy Birch. At your service.”

For five beautiful summers, Maggie and Nancy scam their way through the streets of London, fooling every sort of man and woman with their enormous eyes and weak little smiles. And then a woman named Lydia Quigley offers them a place in a bigger scam, the sort of scam where they’ll wear jewels and fancy dresses (“Ew!” Nancy says, and Maggie hushes her) and all they have to do is walk with a few gentlemen and declare their love.

They accept immediately, bringing their bags of meager belongings to Golden Square with big, bright smiles on their faces.

The smiles fade quickly.

_Three years later_

“What a loyal lapdog you have here,” Lydia Quigley says, letting her eyes trace over Nancy and Maggie, curled together in Nancy’s room late at night. The two quickly separate. Maggie looks down, but Nancy openly glares.  
“Another night without food for Nancy dear,” Quigley’s tone is light and amused. Nancy lunges forward, but Maggie holds her back. “Nancy, don’t!”  
“You rotten bitch,” Nancy snarls.  
“Keep her on a leash, Margaret.” A hint of darkness creeps into Quigley’s voice. “Or I’ll have to spay your little pup.”

Nancy sneaks into Maggie’s room that night, slips into her bed. It’s a lavish bed, as lavish as everything in Quigley’s awful house, and Nancy hates every bit of it. “One day,” Nancy whispers, her hands clutching Maggie’s, “We will sleep on beds of straw, and the whole world will know of Quigley’s evil.”  
“And our love,” Maggie chuckles indulgently, kissing Nancy on the lips.

“And our love,” Nancy repeats. “I’ll wear men’s clothes every day, and you’ll have the handsomest dresses and no man will dare to touch either of us.”  
“What a beautiful world,” Maggie sighs. Her legs entangle themselves with Nancy’s.

Nancy cups Maggie’s cheeks. “It will be a reality, I promise.”

The next day, Nancy is whipped black and blue for scaring away her cull, and Maggie watches with the other girls in horror.  
“Agatha, keep her in my cellar. Don’t feed her.”

Maggie throws herself at Quigley’s feet in a mess of silk skirts. “Mrs. Quigley, please,” she sobs. “If you’ve ever felt an ounce of love for me, if I’ve ever served you well, just let me treat Nancy’s wounds. That’s all I ask.”  
Quigley raises an eyebrow, disgust and pity warring in her cold blue gaze. “Very well,” she sighs. “But each rag you bloody goes into your debt, Margaret dear.”

Maggie sniffles and nods, standing back up, and Quigley and her entourage of perfumed pretties sweep away.


End file.
